Yep. I’ve signed on it, virtually speaking. And now I’m getting the jitters and doubts and semi-regrets because, as much as it pains me to say it, I’m not a joiner.  But recently I’ve agreed to do several things, join things, show up, participate, chime in, stretch. The closer the start time gets, the more I think about pulling out and so I’m trying really hard to convince myself that I can do these things, that I just have to organize and structure my time effectively.

April 1 is the beginning of National Poetry Month (NaPoMo) and I’ve signed up with The Found Poetry Review to participate in their project PoMoSco (Poetry Month Scouts) where basically I’ll be writing a found poem every day for the month of April using prompts provided by FPR. Badges will be earned and there are prizes involved, I think. I hope I win the trip to the Amalfi Coast. We have a manual with all the prompts and daily instructions which I’ve printed out but not read. TMI and I might really freak out so I’ll be reading it on a need-to-know basis,  day by day – just enough to work on my poem for that day. There’s a Facebook group, too, and I’m amazed by how organized and strategic some people are already! Me, I’ll wing it. The reason I joined this project is to help me out of a writing slump so I want to challenge my creativity without any kind of premeditation. I think this will be a great way to boost my creativity, if I can stick it out.

I really like writing found poems. It’s challenging and interesting to create a bit of work, something completely different, from someone else’s work. Here’s an example of a found poem I wrote using  a passage from  Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Miguel Garcia Marquez, on the day he died. It was published in The Poetry Storehouse last fall.

Hiding places

From the beginning even the smallest dreams
were a half-turned terror that might never end
Secret hiding places shelter
the fallout of war: the sound

of breath,
the throbbing cheek,
the flowered dress drenched with rain.

A frozen heart is without failures,
without fight, a silence
of not asking questions.
In my memory

you recognize me by touch,
inch by inch.
A rusty fan blows the stench
of sweat from my sheets.

I didn’t strictly use only words and phrases from his text, but added my own thoughts to some of the words and phrases he used.

I hope I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew. I think I’ll be chewing furiously but what a diet it will be!